


All The Days of Their Grace

by Tanaqui



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, story lottery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Few now go to the Hallow of Eru on Meneltarma, but Númendil of the line of the Lords of Andúnië has his reasons for climbing the mountain path. Written for the <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/story_lottery/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/story_lottery/"><b>story_lottery</b></a> prompt "sunset".</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Days of Their Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Númendil, who is a young man in this story, will later become the 17th Lord of Andúnië and grandfather of Elendil the Tall, who escaped the Downfall. Thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/scribblesinink/profile)[**scribblesinink**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/scribblesinink/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/elena_tiriel/profile)[**elena_tiriel**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/elena_tiriel/) for the beta.

Númendil's hand was sticky where he held Irildë's as they climbed the grassy slope. Looking across at her, he gave her a nervous smile, which she returned with equal awkwardness. His heart pounded in his chest, although the land under their feet still rose only gently.

The low afternoon sun of Narquelië warmed their backs, well-swathed in cloaks against the chill wind blowing from the east. Númendil tried to keep them at the appearance of a gentle stroll, though his course as he guided their steps led always toward the ridged root of the mountain where the road up to the summit began. When, in his impatience and unease, he began to hurry, Irildë each time tugged him back with a gentle hand. Her steady presence at his side calmed his nerves.

The shadows were growing long as they reached the entrance to the path. Númendil steeled himself for the scrutiny of the gate-wards who stood on either side of the entrance. There had always been men stationed here, to greet visitors to a place under the care of the King, and to provide assistance to any who wished to climb to the high hallow. Though the way was not forbidden—_Yet!_ Númendil thought, _But for how much longer will it be open to all?_—the demeanour of the guardians of the gate was no longer welcoming, and few now climbed to the heights at any season.

One of the guards stepped away from his post before the left pillar, carved into the living rock. "What business have you today on the path, boy?"

"I... I... just wanted to show my young lady the... the place where Lord Aldarion showed the Lady Erendis the Land of Gift," Númendil stuttered. He glanced across at Irildë and saw she was shyly hanging her head. "And, you know...." He left the sentence unfinished, doing his best himself to look embarrassed, and hoping that the guard would assume anything but the truth.

The guard eyed him scornfully and snorted. "How very romantic! Best be quick, then. Sun's going down, and you won't see much of anything soon enough."

He stepped back, gesturing up the path, and Númendil hurried Irildë past. A hundred paces on, when the twisting of the road around the mountain peak had hidden them from view of the gate, Númendil let out a long breath. He and Irildë shared a look—her quick nod reassured him and fortified him—and then went on.

For a while, they climbed swiftly but steadily, the silence broken only by their own harsh breathing and the quiet piping of the small scarlet birds that flitted among the rocks. The way here was wide enough for many to walk abreast, but some instinct made Númendil draw them to one side, some relic perhaps of a time when Men had walked among the stones of the old country in fear of more than their fellow Men.

When they had more than halved the distance to the hallow, Númendil heard ahead of them the unmistakable sound of men in armour approaching. Choosing swiftly, keen to avoid a second interrogation, he abruptly pulled Irildë to the edge of the path and into an embrace, his arms around her waist, his face buried in her neck.

He felt her hands clutch his back in surprise. "Giggle," he hissed into her ear, as he peered up from under lowered lashes at a second set of guards coming down the slope towards them. She let out a surprisingly girlish chuckle. He wasn't sure if she was a better actress than he was, or if it was pure fear; her fingers were digging hard into his shoulders.

As the guards passed, he saw the older one raise his eyebrows and shake his head despairingly, and heard him mutter, "Youngsters today!"

The younger one had turned his head and was watching them. Or, more exactly, watching Irildë. "Wouldn't mind me a piece of—."

The older one gave him a playful cuff. "Get your eyes back in your head and your mind back on the job."

Númendil sighed in relief as the guards rounded a turn of rock and passed out of sight. Gently he pushed Irildë away from him. Her eyes were wide, and he could feel her trembling. He cupped her face in his hand. "We'll be all right," he whispered. His heart suddenly swelled with love for her: that she'd agreed to be a part of this mad, dangerous scheme. "Come." He smiled at her, and took her hand again, and led her on.

When they reached the summit, the silence was tangible: no bird call or bleating of sheep from the fields far below could be heard. Only the breeze, whispering over the stones. As they stepped onto the plateau, three eagles swept down and settled themselves on the rocks near the western edge. Númendil nodded his head in satisfaction: _at least there will be witnesses._

He led Irildë towards where the eagles perched, seeking a place where they could not easily be seen from the entrance to the hallow: there was courage and there was foolhardiness, and he knew the difference! Signalling to Irildë to do likewise, he slipped off the warm cloak that not only kept off the chill of the day but hid the white robes he wore underneath. They had brought no garlands, for that would have drawn too much attention, but he hoped their intent would be enough.

Holding out his hands to the eagles, where they sat ruffling their feathers and eyeing him a little suspiciously, he began to silently recite the Eruhantalë. Only the King might speak here, but since the King would _not_ speak, Númendil was determined to keep the ceremony as best he might.

As the words, carefully memorized, formed themselves in his mind, the Eagles rose and hovered, wings spread wide and black against the blood-red of the falling sun. At his side, he heard Irildë let out a small gasp that mirrored his own relief. Poor substitute as this was for what should be done, it seemed the Eagles had heard and accepted.

He came to the end of the prayer. The silence across the hallow had grown deeper: even the soft soughing of the wind was gone. Then the Eagles dipped their wings in salute, before they turned and sped west, into the sunset.

Númendil clutched his hands to his chest for a moment, watching them depart. As they dwindled to small specks, he realized he was shuddering from the release of tension, and from the cold as the wind picked up again. In the growing gloom, he fumbled for his dropped cloak and flung it around him, before he turned back to Irildë.

He saw that, unasked, she had stood an arm's length from him so that she might watch both him and the entrance to the hallows, ready to reach out and touch him in warning. Again, his heart flushed with gratitude and love, for her courage and her wisdom. Helping her to swathe herself in her cloak once more, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her brow. No word could be spoken on the hallow, but when he turned her to face him, he knew no words were needed.

They traversed the downward path in silence, until they reached the place where, so tradition held, Lord Aldarion and Lady Erendis had been trothplighted. Theirs had been a grievous fate, and yet each had loved the land after a fashion, each honoured the Gift according to their understanding, and tried to fulfil the responsibilities and burdens of their stations.

_As do I_, Númendil hoped, as he halted and turned Irildë to face him. _As does she._ She had already consented to be his wife many months before; that he had chosen well was now beyond doubt. When he had unfolded his purpose to her, she had not only given him her encouragement but strengthened his scheme by sharing the risk.

Cupping her face with his hand, he murmured, "Thank you."

She shook her head, not in denial of his thanks, but the need for them. She smoothed his hair back from his brow. "When our sons and daughters are born, we will raise them in true knowledge and reverence of the Powers, and of the One that is above the Powers."

"And I shall be sure that they reverence their mother, also," he answered softly. "As their father does." Leaning forward, he gave her a brief, tender kiss, before they carried on down the path back to their unhappy, divided land.


End file.
